Drone talk, crone talk, this mawk will underscore
all my amiable lessons with its gaga furore
of hidden clause and cause for cutting budgets to
the core.
It's a poor whore's lamentation that the times are
chaste and raw.
Dark talk, dork talk, vowels from the craw,
torque-wrench talk, or angle-grind, or tyros
squawking war,
the crows have tensioned our attention with their
tired scorn,
their stop-work growls of Up yours, sport! their
seminars of garn!
As fellows tumble round a field with oi! oi! eeyah!
and coaches blast the slowcoaches with 'Avyagotitinya?'
the crows discourse and comment all according to
their tempers
with argh! and bah! and farkh! as they ruffle their
black jumpers.
So why do crows not gossip, not chortle, but must chaw,
must augur all their sterile news from dustbin dawn
till four,
then flap away ungainly, black plastic on the air,
disconsolate, yes, but too self-righteous for despair?